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Confessions from a Momma’s Boy

By Anonymous ()

Thursday, May 8, 2008 - 8:37am

It’s been suggested that I’m a bit of a “Momma’s Boy.”Darin J. McCann

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll say that my accusers include my sister, my father, my publisher, my friends, the guy at the landfill that I’ve run into two or three times in my life and, well, my mother. Though the evidence appears damning, I think you’ll have a different opinion after hearing my side of the story.

For starters, it’s been my experience that a true Momma’s Boy does not make a move in life without first consulting that all-powerful maternal influence in his life. I, on the other hand, often ... well ... fine, I’ll give you this one. But I don’t call on my mother because I’m a Momma’s Boy, it’s because she’s truly the smartest and most creative person that’s ever graced this earth, and I’d be silly not to utilize that incredible tool ...

Man, I really am a Momma’s Boy, aren’t I?

I actually make no apologies for it, to be honest with you. My mother and I have spent years being friends, sharing the same interests and talking through things together. Throughout my life, she was part-time disciplinarian, part-time tutor, part-time doctor and full-time light. Got a problem with that? Go sit on a tack.

I love my mommy.

And I love Mother’s Day. I love the concept of paying homage to those most-underappreciated people in our lives, and there’s something that just seems innocent and sweet about a holiday that causes people around many parts of the globe to take a moment and offer thanks to mother’s everywhere. Inspired by the very notion of Mother’s Day, I crept around on the Internet a little bit and found some history on this big day.

According to Howstuffworks.com, there are many historians who trace the roots of Mother’s Day to ancient times. Greeks paid homage to Rhea, the mother of the gods and goddesses of Greek mythology. The Romans paid tribute to Cybele, another goddess mother, with a three-day tribute packed with frivolity. My mother, who has her master’s degree in the Classics, would absolutely love this link.

Not that I did that because I’m a Momma’s Boy, mind you. I’m just saying, is all.

Credit for Mother’s Day celebrations in this country is given to Anna Jarvis, a West Virginia woman who had a ceremony in 1907 to honor her mother, who had passed away two years earlier. Jarvis petitioned state legislators until West Virginia became the first state to recognize the new holiday in 1910. President Woodrow Wilson then declared the second Sunday in May to be Mother’s Day in 1914.

Yes, I’m just as frightened as the rest of you that our nation got its cue from something that happened in West Virginia, but you still have to admire the efforts of Jarvis.

Hold off on that praise for just a moment. Jarvis apparently became upset with the commercialization of the day, and filed a lawsuit in 1923 to stop a Mother’s Day event. I couldn’t find any references on the Web concerning Jarvis suing to stop Christmas or any of our other over-commercialized holidays, but I’d hazard a guess that this was not a happy soul by the end of her life.

Regardless, the holiday began, and it continues on today. Sure, the commercialization that Jarvis had complained about 85 years ago has only grown with time, but that doesn’t really take away the good that comes with the day. For all the annoyance of yet another reason for Kay Jewelers to make me look bad by comparison in their commercials, there are indeed mothers opening little gifts of bling from their children and spouses.

For all the inundation of brunch specials surrounding us, the fact remains that it results in mothers being taken out to nice brunches on their special days. For all the bad, there is much more good.

No, I can’t take my mother out to one of those beautiful brunches, simply because of the geography between us. And I can’t really buy her one of those fabulous diamond pendants on the television because, well, we’re talking about fabulous diamond pendants and I’m but a humble journalist.

I can’t paint her a picture, because I’m artistically-challenged. I can’t sing her a song, because my singing voice has caused feral cats to spontaneously go sterile. And I can’t give her that perfect day alone without distraction, because there is no force that can prevent my father from being a complete distraction at any given time.

But I can tell her that I love her, and I can certainly take a little time here and let her know she’s appreciated, so here goes:

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